


Flame

by YouMeandObsession (you_me_and_obsession)



Category: Flammen & Citronen | Flame & Citron (2008)
Genre: Alternate Events, Emotion Study, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Love, M/M, Relationship Study, Requited Love, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, alternate POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 04:41:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12381102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_me_and_obsession/pseuds/YouMeandObsession
Summary: You are the flame. And I'm the fuel. And I will be as long as I live. As long as I live with you. You're the flame. You shine and I burn.





	Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Just ignore Jorgen's family's existence here. Thank you.  
> Wow! It's been a looooong while since I wrote this story and I'm happy to see more fics in this fandom even if not about this pairing.

**FLAME**

 

It’s late. The rain is mute. It falls and Bent imagines he could tell each drop from another, but it is mute, not soft but unable to break through anything. Not the silence in this basement, anyway. He wonders if there are different kinds of silence. He would not know. To him there are only two kinds of silence. The silence in this basement, and any other silence. Even the silence when they’re driving. Even the silence when they’re standing by before someone answers the door and lets them in. Even the silence when they leave a house, and a corpse. Those are all the same; they’re just one kind of silence, and that kind, it embraces him. Always dances around him, and he pays it no heed. But the silence in this basement. He wants to embrace it, instead, always reaching out for it, and it’s always there, on the tip of his fingers. Right. There. It is thick. Like some sort of haze. Or rather, like some sort of hazy soup. If soup could be hazy. It surrounds them.

Thud after solid thud of hard soles on the concrete floor parts the haze of silence. Towards him. And he waits. Is this his favourite part of the day? Is this his favourite part of the night?

†

He closes the door and greets the silence in the basement. It parts and breaks with every sound his shoes create. As long as the lock clicks, any rain can be quieted, but the night is still cold, a lingering, long nice cold. Jørgen inhales that cold. The basement smells like Bent, and Bent smells like it. Like the water that he immerses his own body every night, the body that Jørgen always hears, but doesn’t see. He smells like the rain water that drips every now and then, every here and there. And,… he smells a little like Jørgen, like what little scent he’s left on the armchair he frequents, in the clothes he’s borrowed every once in a while, and on the bed they share from time to time, impossible as it is, when Jørgen stays.

Or does he now?

His pace steady, Jørgen throws his cigarette into a puddle in a corner of the room.

†

Four steps.

†

_Bent was shaking. And the sight itself shook his hands that were unstable enough over the bleeding holes in Bent’s thigh. The sight, it was violent. Bent, twenty-three, having killed Lorentzen, in Jørgen’s place, shaking like a child, under Winther’s touch and his own delirious apologies and promises. Like a child trying to live up to his father’s expectations. The very sight made his stomach turn._

†

_The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Jørgen’s face._

_“Thank you”, he said, exhausted as he was._

_Jørgen didn’t let out a sigh of relief. His facial muscles didn’t slacken. Bent would always remember his face that whole night. Jørgen was close, face mere inches away from his. Lips slightly parted the way they always were. Dark hair, sticky and falling over and into his eyes. And eyes… Eyes boring into his. Incomprehensibly haunted. Like a vice’s grip. Was he worried? Was he scared? Bent wanted to ask._

_Jørgen dropped his head, his hands on his lap, still; he was searching for something Bent didn’t see and know, his breath hot on Bent’s numb torso._

_“What is it?”, he whispered, the sound not louder than a mere breath. “Jørgen”._

_Jørgen turned to him then, but wasn’t looking at him. His lips moved in muteness. Bent tried to search his eyes. His fingers crawled awkwardly, tentatively to Jørgen’s, but they started trembling before he could possibly touch him. Jørgen lifted his eyes. They were painful, and unreadable._

_“Nothing”, he said, the word coming unbidden and heavy in his soft voice._

†

Three steps.

†

_He closed the door softly and locked it methodically. Jørgen was there. He locked it even though Jørgen was there. He didn’t want to think about whether he would be staying or not. Not this moment. Not when he was still warm from the warmth he’d plunged into, still covered in the scent of a woman. And… Jørgen was sitting in the armchair, like he always did, his head rested against it, his neck thrown backwards, a rough curve. Jørgen was covered in black. He had one of Bent’s bottles in his hand, laying secured on one arm of the chair. He didn’t move, didn’t look up all while Bent was walking towards him. The moon was the only light._

_Jørgen, why didn’t you turn the lamp on like you always do?, he was tempted to ask. Jørgen, you’re drinking my stuff again? Jørgen, why are you not wearing your glasses?_

_Jørgen._

_He was tempted to speak his name._

_He came as close as he could and took a good look at Jørgen. The bottle was half empty. Jørgen had dropped a glass on the floor. His eyes were shut tight, like the dead. His hair sticked to his forehead, dark strands that were too long and just not long enough. There were a few beads of sweat on his face._

_Suddenly Jørgen’s eyes opened, dark crystals, wet, not fluttering. Very wet. Bent’s mind was startled and his breathing disturbed. The air that went in and out his lungs was rasping. Jørgen stared straight at him, unblinking, the kind of stare that he had seen him giving to enemies. But his eyes were kind as he kept looking at Bent, drunk but awake, and silenced._

_Jørgen, what are you not saying?, Bent was tempted to ask._

_They stayed like that, Bent crouched over Jørgen, one hand right next to Jørgen’s shoulder, and Jørgen looking up at him. They stayed like that until Bent felt as if breathing was becoming a physical pain. He moved, his cheek inches apart from Jørgen’s, breaths ragged, heart pounding, and he blinked rapidly and said,_

_“Jørgen. Go to bed.”_

_Jørgen didn’t answer. He didn’t move. Bent drew back and grabbed his wrist and tugged at him like a child, trying his best to conceal the trembling of his hand. Jørgen stood and removed his jacket and his belt. He walked past Bent and sat on the bed, not lying down until Bent was in his undershirt and his trousers. He lay with his back facing Jørgen in the narrow bed, his limbs hanging over the edge. When he fell asleep, he fell fast._

_Still, he was tempted to call Jørgen’s name._

†

Two steps.

†

_It was a ridiculous nickname at first. A tease. But you are the flame. And I’m the fuel. And I will be as long as I live. As long as I live with you. You are the flame. You shine and I burn._

†

One step.

†

Bent is half lying in bed, his usual pose, his shirt abandoned. In his hand is a glass of a drink that Jørgen isn’t familiar with. He looks at Bent for a lingering moment, then glances at the glass.

“Can I try that?”, he asks.

“Of course”, Bent answers softly.

He lifts the glass to Jørgen’s mouth and tips the liquid through his lips. Jørgen gulps it down and Bent withdraws the glass, the back of his fingers grazing Jørgen’s mouth. He sees Jørgen’s lips tremble. He sees his own fingers do. Jørgen lifts his eyes and looks at him, scrutinising, excruciating. Every breath is taken painfully from Bent, but still he can’t turn his head and escape from the gaze. But, Jørgen’s eyes are kind. They’re still kind even when they drop and disappear behind long lashes. Jørgen’s lips, slowly they move and nip at his own, putting sweet and destructive pressure on the back of his fingers. As their soft flesh collides, his world shatters like the glass that falls from his hand. Bent gasps weakly in broken hysteria, like a weeping child as he pushes his fingers into the warmth.

Jørgen squeezes his eyes. Electric sensations stab through his senses as round, blunt fingertips touch his tongue. _You’re the flame. You shine and I burn_. He pulls Bent by his wrist and his back and everything he’s got his hands on and falls down with him. He feels Bent throw his arms around his neck. He feels him grasping at his shirt. He feels the desperation. It vibrates through as Bent’s clutching his nape and holding his head tight to his chest. Jørgen breathes in until he’s suffocated in his scent.

“Jørgen”, Bent says, finally.

“You’re cold”, Jørgen whispers as he runs his nose and lips along his chest, wiggling slightly in his hold to get to his face.

“You’re so cold”.

He runs a hand along one white cheek and brushes some of the flaming hair away.

“Yes”.

Bent’s hands are shaking on either side of his face.

“Yes”.

And his whisper breaks.

“So please, keep me warm”.

Bent’s eyes are wet, and Jørgen crosses that inch between them. He kisses him with his eyes closed, as gentle as he’s always wanted to be, and as greedy as he now will always be. Bent is warming up, strangely fragile in his arms. His tongue is innocent and yielding against Jørgen’s. His body is harsh lines, bold beneath the thin fabric of his undershirt, slender and aroused. The feelings overwhelm his closed eyes.

_Years. I’ve spent years. Days and nights. Long waits and short kills. I’ve spent years loving you._

And he feels as if Bent is hearing them all. The words and the heartbeats.

When they part, Bent lets out a strangled sound, a cry, or a laugh. Slowly he opens his eyes, a little wide, and soft. He face is gentle, the way he’s always been with Jørgen, with an imaginative smile on his lips.

“How long?”, Bent asks quietly, hands on Jørgen’s cheeks, neck and throat and everywhere.

“For as long as I can remember, Bent”

A tear falls into Bent’s open eye. It runs to the corner of his eye and slids down with finality. He smiles a feather smile.

“Thank you”

He shuts his eyes and throws his arms around Jørgen’s neck. He pulls Jørgen down and pulls his legs up. They kiss and they meet, and get tangled. Jørgen laughs, cries, whimpers and grunts broken sounds, and Bent licks and swallows them all. He’s ecstatic and frightened, and Bent trembles in the savage beauty of it as it spreads through him.

Jørgen draws back up and starts to slide against him. He traps Bent between his arms and stares at him.

_This is the Jørgen he’s known. This is the Jørgen he should have been given the privilege to know years ago._

Persistent. Strong. Consistent.

Seductive. Desperate.

Scared.

_Oh. So this is what I saw back then. This is why he was so scared._

“Say it, Bent”. A plead and a command, while he’s still trapping Bent between his arms.

_Why not you first, Jørgen?, Bent briefly considers, but he does understand._

“I love you”, he says, bravely, and reaches up to break the bars.

Jørgen smiles then, not cool, but kind, and all the bars break at once. They breathe and drown and fumble for lips, buttons and fabrics. Before Bent knows it, he’s shaking from the cold and burning from the heat. He digs his hands into Jørgen’s back; Jørgen grips his thigh. He has his mouth on Jørgen’s ear; Jørgen has his tongue on his nipple. He feels reverence seeping through his fingertips. Jørgen’s body is like a land he’s never been to, but has read so much about that he knows which path to take, which corner to turn. And Jørgen touches him as though they were lovers in another life.

_Maybe we were. Don’t you think so?_

Bent closes his eyes and grinds his teeth as Jørgen slides further down his torso. His breath is warm, and it drives Bent delirious in madness. His rough hands are soft wherever they’re touching. They run from his toes, backwards on his scalves, finally reach his thighs, and dig in.

_You set me alight. Now, only now am I the Flame._

He hooks a leg beneath Jørgen’s arm, the one with the scar, and tries to pull him.

“Come here”, he whispers, “Come here please”.

Jørgen complies. He comes and lands where Bent wants him. There are tears in his gray-green eyes, blackened by the dark, crystallised by the lamp. The light casts geometric shadows on his face, and Jørgen follows the sharp, straight lines with the tip of his hairs, drawing for the first time the portrait he’s been ever so familiar with. Bent draws in and out draggled breaths with every touch he receives, as if it were a physical pain. _But it has been. Physically painful._ For those entire years breathing has been that, a physical pain, for Jørgen. Breathing alone, breathing right next to Bent, but not _with him_.

_It must have been for Bent, too._

He lets go then. All kinds of pain and jealousy and countless quiet little heartbreaks. Enough of breaking and killing for the both of them. Jørgen lets go, and all there is between them right now is sweet friction, rhythmic motions and agonising pleasure. Smoothness and wetness. Bent’s temptation as he guides Jørgen to his entrance. Bent is burning, the way Flame never has. His desire is swallowing his irises, and he writhes beneath Jørgen. He is a man in madness, and Jørgen, a man overdosed.

“Jørgen”, Bent raves, over and over again, like a mantra as he moves, creating crazy friction where they’re joined. He pushes against Jørgen, ready but not enough to take him in. He beckons, begs, and then cries when they have their fingers around each other. Their flesh is too hard, their fingers too calloused, and the grip too tight, and together they fall into the open mouth of their feelings’ abyss. Jørgen’s scent is sweet, his teeth sharp and his caress stubbled, and his hand almost kills Bent. Too tight. Too harsh. Too rough. Warm. Jørgen-like. Loving. Bent lets out a helpless cry as he climaxes, but the sound is cut short and his voice knocked out as hot heat flows inside him with one merciless thrust. Jørgen is inside.

†

It’s late. Almost early. The rain hasn’t stopped outside. Bent could feel his lips freezing as he leans against Jørgen. Jørgen is propped against the wall, Bent’s bottle in his hand. His heartbeat is steady, like it always has been, eversince the first time he shot someone in front of Bent. Bent listens closely. When he opens his eyes, he knows, indeed, there are two different kinds of silence, but like all things they’re both bound to be lost. He says, voice thin and wind-broken,

“When I die, will you die with me?”

“Yes”.

The answer comes with no delay, and Bent can _know_ Jørgen open his eyes.

“Jørgen”, he breathes, “I didn’t mean if.  I didn’t mean-“

“I know”. Jørgen turns his head with both hands on his face. He stares straight as him, eyes as steady and aflame as on the enemies.

“I know what you mean. And I will… Bent”.

Bent closes his eyes.


End file.
